Paradise Forsaken
by tonksinger
Summary: AU from HPB, at which point Severus' loyalties are to himself. Hermione figures in his schemes, but his temptations may turn against him. SS and HG, general, adventure, drama.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Thanks to my awesome betas for this chapter, astopperindeath and luvsev. Apologies to J.K. Rowling and John Milton. **

_But I shall rise victorious and subdue_

_My vanquisher._

Paradise Lost_, _Book III

Every breath was a fight and every long stride a war. As he ran, Severus reflected that walking around the corridors of Hogwarts was not adequate physical preparation for fleeing for one's life.

He was almost at the boundaries of the Hogwarts grounds. Maybe a hundred feet further and he and Draco would be able to Apparate to safety.

Relative safety, at least. Any place containing the Dark Lord was not "safe," not even for his followers. At the moment it would be saf_er_, since there would be nobody actively trying to kill him.

"Se—Sever—us, I think we're al—almost there!"

Draco's voice, its usual aristocratic drawl roughened by terror and exhaustion, came from Severus's right. Draco was holding up very well, in Severus's mind; the expected whining had not yet raised its sleek, coiffed head. Thank Merlin enough morals resided somewhere in the boy that he had not killed Albus himself. Draco was young, innocent; with luck, he could be kept so during the war, and thus kept out of Azkaban. Not killing national icons was an important part of this.

Severus spotted the slight indentation in the grass indicating the edge of Hogwarts' protective spells. Stumbling over it, he seized Draco's arm and focused on the three D's. Infantile, he knew, but he was so drained that it was the only way both of them would end up where they wanted to be in one piece.

_Destination… Spinner's End. Determination… I don't want to fucking die. Deliberation…_

The world lurched, then vanished.

* * *

"Harry! Harry, come back, he's gone, there's nothing you can do!" Hermione pulled with all her might, trying to prevent Harry from breaking free and running after Snape. Ron was doing the same on Harry's other arm, big hands enveloping the smaller boy's thinner limb.

It was a scene transplanted from the year before, only at the Ministry it had been Remus holding Harry back as he fought to go after Sirius. What little rationality Harry had in the face of death was completely lost in his consuming need to catch Snape. To take his revenge for Dumbledore's death.

Hermione still couldn't believe it. When Harry had sprinted past them screaming about Snape killing Dumbledore, she, Ron, Ginny, and Luna had stood dumbfounded. It seemed ludicrous, impossible. Snape was a teacher, a spy for the Order. Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in the world. None of it made any sense, and Hermione's logic fought it still.

But seeing Harry like this, and watching Snape and Draco fleeing across the grounds, Hermione started to doubt her logic. Dumbledore had trusted Snape and had always told them as much. But he had also admitted to being misguided about people in the past. If Snape was a good enough Occlumens to fool Voldemort, why couldn't he fool Dumbledore as well?

But what if Dumbledore's death was a small part of a bigger plan, one that the venerable Headmaster had designed to hide Snape's true allegiance from everyone?

But what if it was exactly what it looked like?

Hermione's mind railed against itself. Reading between the lines was a good skill to have, but sometimes all that was there was blank space.

"Let go of me! He killed him, don't you fucking understand that, _Snape killed Dumbledore!_" But Harry's screams grew hoarse and his struggles weakened. Exhaustion, frustration, and sorrow were sapping his energy. When a last pull failed to free him from the grasp of his friends, all spirit went out of him. His arm went limp under her hand, and she and Ron went from holding him back to holding him up.

"I'll find you, Severus Snape," he whispered, staring out across the lawns, where two distant figures stopped running and then vanished.

"Harry, mate, come on." Ron tugged at his arm, glancing over at Hermione. She saw exhaustion and terror in his brown eyes. Hermione knew he was worried about his family. Maybe they were all fine, but there were a lot of them to worry about.

"Come on," he repeated, moving in front of Harry to look at him. "We need to go find D-Dumbledore." He choked on the name. According to Harry, Snape had blasted Dumbledore off the tower; find him they would, but in what state, Hermione didn't want to think about. Ron did not seem to be any more optimistic than she.

Each leaning on and supporting the others, the trio trudged over the lawns, heading back to the castle. Hermione tried hard not to look at the sky over Hogwarts; the Dark Mark still hung there, an aberrant constellation amongst the stars.

"Where was it, Harry?" she asked as they approached the castle. Smoke drifted from a few broken windows, and vague shapes were rushing in and out of the main entrance.

He pointed to the Astronomy Tower.

He wasn't wrong. Stunned at the cold, hard evidence of Dumbledore's death, the trio huddled next to the body. Hermione took Harry's hand, feeling it tremble. All of them had loved Dumbledore, in the way one loved a wise uncle, but Harry had seen the Headmaster as a surrogate father.

Heavy footsteps behind them made her turn. Hagrid was there, sooty, with a few inches of his beard singed off.

"Hagrid!" She lifted her hand in a not-quite-wave. "Are you all right? Is Fang all right? What's happened?"

"I'm fine, Fang's fine, no one's dead that we know of," he said. His pink umbrella looked the worse for wear.

She tried not to flinch at that last bit. "Hagrid… " But the words would not come. Beside her, Harry sobbed.

"Been lookin' all over fer you three. What's got ye over here…?"

His voice faded away as he came abreast of them and saw what they were looking at.

"No… no, it can't be…" The ground shook as the great man collapsed to his knees, uttering a wail of grief. "Not Dumbledore…"

Ron put a hand on Hagrid's shoulder. The four of them stood for a time, Hagrid's sobs echoing in the air.

It was the gamekeeper who tenderly scooped up Dumbledore's body to bear it to the castle, with Harry, Ron, and Hermione walking alongside. There was no need to trot to keep up with him; sorrow kept his steps slow.

They met McGonagall on the steps to the main entrance. Seeing Hagrid's burden, she clutched a hand to her chest and swayed on her feet, recovering enough after a moment to accompany them to the Hospital Wing. But tears glimmered in McGonagall's eyes, and more than once the emerald-cloaked shoulders jerked and shuddered.

Hermione couldn't help but notice that Harry had yet to reveal who had killed Dumbledore. But, she reasoned, it might be better to give everyone a few minutes to get over one shock before handing them another. Her logic was supported when Ron fled into the grasp of his family, all of whom were grouped around Bill's bed. She stood alone for a time as Harry embraced Ginny and everyone else hurried around the room, with Madam Pomfrey snapping out rapid orders. Harry would wait, she knew, until he was asked.

* * *

Severus stared at the grimy kitchen window of Spinner's End, wondering if a hot bath was worth the trouble of Transfiguring himself a tub. It had, after all, been a long, hard night. Steeping in hot water might help with the migraine that was prodding at the backs of his eyes. Sighing, he went to find some piece of furniture that would benefit from claw feet.

He had deposited Draco into the clasping arms of Narcissa at Malfoy Manor. After giving a report to the Dark Lord confirming Dumbledore's death at his own hands, Severus had pleaded exhaustion and asked to be excused. The Dark Lord, being pleased with him at the time, had acquiesced. Severus only hoped that Draco would not suffer unduly for failing to complete the task set for him. With luck, his Lord would be pleased enough with the death of his nemesis that he would not care overmuch _who_ had killed him.

Luck, of course, was not a phenomenon upon which any of Voldemort's associates depended. Not if they wanted to become senior associates, anyway.

There. That chair was more hideous than the rest of his furniture. It would look nice in porcelain. Raising his wand and summoning some reserves of strength, Severus created a large, deep, clawfoot tub. Another spell filled it with water, which a third charm heated to the perfect temperature. After a moment of consideration, Severus went back into the kitchen and retrieved a large bottle of elf-made wine and two wineglasses.

He had just sunk in up to his neck, glass in hand, when he became aware of another person in his living room. As expected, though he had hoped for a bit more time to sort himself out. Sitting up, he poured a small amount of the red wine into the other glass and proffered it to the apparently empty room.

"Good evening, Headmaster. Finishing off a long night with a peep show?"

Albus Dumbledore was suddenly reclined on the moldering sofa, looking wrung-out while still reaching for the wine. A resigned look was all Severus received for his jibe. Dumbledore's sexuality was not generally a target for Severus's snide remarks, but he felt he'd earned it that night. Frankly, Severus didn't care if Dumbledore was into men, women, or the Giant Squid, and he cared even less about the old coot getting an eyeful. Remind him of what he probably hadn't got in decades.

Severus ignored the mental reminder that the last _he'd _got had cost ten Galleons an hour. He polished off his wine in one draught and reached for more.

"I am surprisingly well for being dead," Dumbledore said. "One would almost think I hadn't been killed at all, just Levitated off a tower in a flash of green light."

Severus nodded, and contemplated how close Dumbledore had come to being actually dead. All it would have taken was a real Avada Kedavra; Merlin knew Severus held enough anger towards him for it to work.

"I saw the golem of me you made, Severus. The resemblance was remarkable."

"Thank you." _You will never know how enjoyable it was to fling it from the top of the tower. _He had inspected it after, and had been forced to break its neck for added verisimilitude.

"Is Draco safe?" Dumbledore looked intently at Severus. "Twinkling blue diamonds", people said of his eyes.

Diamond, Severus always thought when he heard this, was the hardest substance known to mankind.

"He is sharing a house with the Dark Lord," Severus snapped.

Dumbledore sighed, and Severus thought he heard him mutter, "_Like asking questions of a sphinx…"_ into his wine glass as he sipped. Aloud, he said, "Was he alive when you last saw him and do you think he will continue to be so for the foreseeable future?" There was an edge to his voice, and Severus decided that provoking the most powerful wizard in the world after a long, hard night was perhaps not very wise.

"Yes, Albus. He was alive, although possibly in danger of being suffocated by Narcissa."

Albus smiled slightly. "Her devotion to her son is rather admirable. She has gone to great lengths to protect him."

_And once again, I find myself between the son of a friend and the Dark Lord_, Severus thought, scowling. He had no doubt that Dumbledore had mentioned her parental strengths to remind him of Lily. Another little test of loyalty; a quiet _aide memoire_ to why Severus was here.

Damn the old man for knowing his weak spot! This was why Severus wanted him dead so badly. The power that Dumbledore held over him rankled him. He wanted the controlling forces in his life—good or evil—to be gone, dead, vanished. But to do that he had to work with the (former) Headmaster to first defeat the Dark Lord. After that, however, Dumbledore's life was expendable. The world would be a better place, and not only for himself, without the meddling old man who played games with other people's lives.

Speaking of meddling and protecting brats from the Dark Lord…

"So, Albus, when should I send Granger and Weasley away for safekeeping?"

Dumbledore pursed his lips slightly at the question, looking thoughtful. Severus got through half his glass of wine before he answered.

"Next Friday. Three o'clock in the afternoon should be a good time." He frowned. "I shall have to amend my will to include the taking of the Portkeys at that time, along with a note to Minerva explaining what's happened to them. The poor woman will panic if her students vanish right in front of her."

"Don't you think they could possibly find it a bit odd that your will dictates that Granger and Weasley are handed a book and a Deluminator, respectively, at one minute to three on the tenth of May, this year?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "No doubt they will attribute it to either my infinite wisdom or infinite eccentricity." With a quiet groan, he stood and stretched, cracking his long, bony fingers. "Thank you for the wine, Severus. It was quite palatable."

"It should be. Lucius gave it to me."

Severus had to applaud Dumbledore's poker face. There was a slight bit of paranoia in the suddenly tight smile, alongside the revulsion at having enjoyed something Lucius had selected. He did set the glass down and stand up with a good inch of wine remaining.

"Well, do not give him my thanks. It might seem suspicious to enjoy his cellar posthumously." He stepped over to the fireplace and reached into the small jar in which Severus kept Floo powder.

"I shall be in touch, Severus. Good night. And get out of the bath before you grow wrinkly like me." With that and a parting twinkle, he flung the powder into the fireplace, stepped into the green flames, and shouted something in Italian. He had a secret vacation cottage in Italy, near a beach in Napoli, and had decided to remain there for however long he was supposed to be dead. It was a good hiding place. There were few wizards there. Hopefully Potter would be distracted enough by the sunny weather and Italian girls (or the Weasley girl, if she was thrown in as a consolation present) that he wouldn't ask inconvenient questions, such as "What the fuck is going on?"

_Hmph. Wrinkly, indeed._ Severus heated the water a bit more and sank in up to his chin. A flick of his wand turned on the ancient radio in the corner, which emitted dust from the speakers with every blaring brass interlude Chopin had to offer.

Wine, women and song. Two out of three wasn't too bad.

And if he played his cards right, the third could be right around the corner. He smiled and reached for the wine bottle for a large swig. Seducing her was not strictly necessary for his plan to work, but it might make the process easier and certainly a good deal more pleasant. She could be something of a perk, bushy hair aside.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_To all delight of human sense exposed_

_In narrow room, Nature's whole wealth, yea more,_

_A Heav'n on Earth, for blissful Paradise_

_Of God the garden was_

Paradise Lost, Book IV

The flames from Dumbledore's pyre still scented the air. Hermione could smell it, even with her face buried in Ron's shirt and mucus coursing from her nose. It was more scorched ozone than anything; the power of phoenix flame must instantly incinerate, though the marble tomb was a bit of a mystery.

No. Magic, not mystery. _Probably a transfiguration spell on the logs; Professor McGonagall would know, I'll ask her... _She choked on the giggle that arose. _Always the researcher, the bookworm, aren't we? Even when someone's died._

The hand that had been stroking her hair stopped. Ron murmured, "Scrimgeour's coming back. Let's go talk to Harry, eh?"

Hermione pulled away and nodded, wiping at her eyes. As they brushed past the leonine Minister, who looked as though he'd been promised dessert and presented with a stale biscuit, Hermione pondered what was to come. Harry wasn't coming back. She knew that. There was too much pain and too little to do at Hogwarts, and action had always been his best relief. Also, he wouldn't want to endanger the other students by returning; Hogwarts was no longer a safe haven from Voldemort. The Dark Lord would tear each and every student apart if it meant killing Harry.

But she was damned if she would let him gallivant off on his own, which, as he stated a minute later, was exactly what he planned to do. Even as they returned to the castle, she wasn't sure if he would listen to them. He'd have to be watched, to make sure he didn't try running off to find Horcruxes.

A treacherous little voice in her mind pointed out that, without her there to solve puzzles and provide walking dictionary service, he probably wouldn't get very far.

They spent the days after the funeral packing and sitting around. Boredom was a deadly thing, especially when it was self-inflicted. Harry didn't want to talk about Horcruxes or Voldemort; Ron only talked about his family, and everyone else talked of nothing _but_ Voldemort. Hermione retreated into her books, when she wasn't badgering Professor McGonagall to let her help with castle repairs or making potions with Slughorn for the people still recuperating in the Hospital Wing.

Being in the Potions classroom was odd; she still associated the dank dungeon with Snape. As she chopped and stirred, theories regarding the dark man and his true allegiance ran through her head. Snape's work for the Order, his efforts on several occasions to protect Harry, his efforts on others to have him expelled, and Dumbledore's continuous trust in the dark man combined and conflicted in her mind. Always she came back to taking the situation as it appeared, though it irked her to condemn a teacher thus. Dumbledore had professed his fallibility on several occasions and now it had been demonstrated with Snape's betrayal.

But she did promise herself that, if she ever encountered Snape and survived to speak to him, she would ask. Indeed, she probably wouldn't wait to assuage her curiosity. An image of her raising her hand before shouting questions to him as she dodged curses made her laugh. Slughorn gave her a questioning look, which, as it was similar to being silently interrogated by a robed walrus, only made her laugh harder.

Laughing felt wonderful. She was too sensible to feel guilt over laughing in the days after someone had died; memories of Dumbledore's odd sense of humor helped. She spent the rest of the half-hour her potion had to brew (with three clockwise stirs every three minutes) occasionally stifling giggles.

It was a week after the battle when Professor McGonagall came to the common room, holding a sheaf of paper and a small pouch of embossed leather. Harry, Ron and Hermione were the only ones there, having their daily afternoon session of Moping Around and Not Talking, as Hermione had come to think of it. Ron quelled the chess game he'd been playing with himself, cutting off the clanking of tiny armor. Harry and Hermione both put down their books. The older woman sat down in a nearby armchair, and they reshuffled themselves to face her. Hermione ended up on a settee with Ron, and Harry pulled a wooden chair from one of the tables.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," the professor began when they were seated, looking at each of them in turn, "I have here Dumbledore's will." She presented the sheets of parchment, covered in the familiar loopy handwriting, and set them on a small table. None of the trio moved to take them; they would know the importance soon enough.

"The H-Headmaster," she continued, only the slightest catch in her burr betraying grief, "has bequeathed some small personal items if of his to each of you. He specifically requested you receive them a week after his death—and no, Miss Granger, I don't know why."

Hermione had indeed been about to ask, and she flushed slightly.

Briskly, McGonagall untied the leather thong that held the pouch closed. When she reached in, her hand made no impression on the shape of the pouch, and seemed to go in farther than the small purse should allow. Hermione smiled at the Mary Poppins effect the purse had. Minerva in her youth might well have been like the clever, acerbic governess.

She handed Hermione, who was closest, a slim book. The leather cover left a film of dust on Hermione's hands, and she could just barely make out the runes embossed on the front; the title, she assumed.

"'_To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard.'"

Ron got what appeared to be an ornate, silver cigarette lighter.

"'_To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator."_

"Don't click it," Harry warned Ron as the redhead turned the gift around in his hands. "Unless you want all the lights to go out, that is." He turned back to McGonagall, who reached in to the sack a third time and pulled out a small, golden orb. As it lay in the palm of her hand, wings fluttered weakly at its sides.

"'_To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts."_

Harry silently took the Snitch from her.

There was a quiet moment as all three of them stared at their gifts. Hermione flicked through the book, finding nothing but runes all the way through. They were in an old style, a bit different from what she had studied at Hogwarts. In a way, she was glad of it, for a few nights of translation work would be a welcome reprieve from doing nothing. But she doubted that Dumbledore would give her a book simply to provide her a bit of entertainment. Were the runes a kind of code? Maybe he wrote it to explain everything that had happened in a way that not everyone would be able to read.

The battered leather cover seemed to hold new excitement now. She licked her lips, mentally running through various books that could help her translate these runes.

She jumped when McGonagall cleared her throat. The stately witch was standing up, trying to hide a slight grimace as she did so. She winced outright when a vertebrae popped. It always shocked Hermione when McGonagall showed her age; her dignity and clipped voice always made her seem powerful and younger.

"There is a note here to me, apologizing for any shock I might get when I present these to you. I have no notion what the man is talking about," she muttered, gathering the papers of the will and scanning them.

The clock chimed three.

Hermione felt a great jerk just behind her navel. The last thing she saw before the swirling vortex of a Portkey whisked her away was McGonagall clutching at her chest, white with alarm.

The breath was smacked out of her body as she hit the ground. Gasping, Hermione rolled onto her back. There would be bruises on her right shoulder and ribs in the morning, she knew, but nothing felt broken. Close on her right, someone groaned and shifted.

Fighting the urge to curl into a ball until the ache resided and her lungs worked, Hermione levered herself up until she was sitting upright on the—_Floor?_

Hardwood panels met her inquiring eyes, disappearing under a plush hearthrug about three feet in front of her. _Of course I couldn't have landed _there,she thought bitterly. She looked to her right and found Ron starting to sit up as well, rubbing his left arm and scowling.

"Ron? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, think so," he muttered. "You?"

"Fine," she replied. "Ron, we're indoors."

"The roof was a bit of a clue, Hermione."

He stood up, wincing occasionally, and brushed himself off. She followed suit before he had a chance to offer (or not; this was Ron after all) assistance.

They were inside a small sitting-room, nearly square, with a doorway in the walls on either side of them. The polished hardwood floors that that cushioned their fall were a smooth contrast to rough stone walls and a red brick fireplace. A sofa was placed against the wall behind them, and two armchairs had been pulled up to the blue shag hearthrug. All three were upholstered in battered green brocade, with carved wood legs. Hermione turned around and banged her shin on the top of a low coffee table, which was made from a single slab of wood, knots and all, polished until it glowed. Tall floorlamps stood on either side of the couch, threatening to shed silk tassels over a reader. The walls behind the couch had bookshelves built into the stones and were packed with varicolored tomes. A single window amongst the shelves shed a square of light over the couch and table

All in all, it was rustic, plain, and completely unfamiliar.

"What," said Ron, to no one in particular, "in the name of Merlin's saggy balls is going on?"

"We were sent here. Those items Dumbledore gave us, they were Portkeys to this place." Hermione planted her hands on her hips and scowled at the room. Its very affability and warmth offended her. They had been deposited here like packages in the post and no amount of welcoming interior décor was going to appease her.

"Well," she said, dropping her hands and turning to Ron, "let's have a look around. I don't think Harry's here with us; we'd have heard him shouting by now." Ron snorted at that, but followed her through the door on their right.

It led into a small hallway. Directly in front of them were two adjacent doors; another was situated at the end of the hall. Stepping forward, Hermione turned the iron handle of the door closest to her; Ron took the other one.

A bedroom, slightly smaller than the sitting room, met her eyes. The hardwood floor was almost completely covered by a deep green rug, as plush as moss, which in turn peeked out from under a four-poster bed and a small nightstand. The linens were a lighter green than the rug; at a touch, they proved to be fine cotton. Someone had gone to considerable effort to give the impression of rustic luxury.

A wooden dresser stood against the wall that adjoined the other room. The top drawer contained plain shirts in several colors and a few pairs of jeans which, when held up against Hermione's curvy hips, proved to be too large. She frowned as she put them back, wondering why they had been placed there. They were clearly too big for any member of the trio. It occurred to her that they could be Transfigured to fit; a clever way of providing them with near-perfect clothing without having to ask for measurements.

More filled bookshelves and a window in a similar design to the sitting room were all that room contained. Hermione stepped back out into the hall. Ron was already there.

"Bedroom?" he asked.

"Yes. The theme was green. Yours?"

"Blue. What are the gigantic clothes for? Are they trying to fatten us up?"

Hermione snorted as a Hansel and Gretel image came to her. Pushing Dumbledore into an oven was looking better by the minute. "No, Ron. We can transfigure them to fit us, though I do hope they send our trunks. All my underwear is in mine."

Ron's ears went a bit red at that and she sighed inwardly. Getting Ron thinking about her underwear when they were alone in a house was not on high on her priorities. Brushing past him, she inspected the third door; a bathroom, mostly wood and polished stone, except for the porcelain toilet. The bathtub was enormous, set into a recess in the wall, and all of the same smooth, dark stone. The fixtures were matte silver.

They went back through the sitting room. The other doorway led into a kitchen, fully furnished with the usual Muggle apparatuses. The counters were polished stone over wood, like the bathroom. A small breakfast nook was off to the left; it was next to a large sliding-glass door that led to a screened-in porch. On the other side of the room was another door, with three small cut-glass panes set in the top. This proved to be the front door. Beyond was a small stone path winding through a fenced-in vegetable garden. Outside the white picket line and the clearing the house lay in were widely spaced trees; an open, friendly forest.

"Hermione!" said Ron suddenly. She turned from inspecting the landscape to find him reading a small piece of parchment. She darted to his side and he handed over the paper. The loopy handwriting was entirely too familiar at this stage.

_Dear Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley,_

_First and foremost, I most sincerely implore your forgiveness for setting you both here without so much as a by-your-leave. I am truly sorry for the underhanded tactics I used to transport you here. I knew there was no other way to get the two of you here, especially without Harry, but my actions are still unforgivable. _

_If you are reading this, I am dead, and so can no longer protect the three of you. It is for your safety that I have placed you here, and for Harry's safety where I have placed him. Voldemort knows of you two, and you would be primary targets through which he would try to get to Harry. He learned from the incident at the Ministry last year that Harry will immediately rush to save those he loves if he learns of their peril. For your sakes and his, I had to send you into hiding and had to prepare for it to be postmortem. I hope you understand my reasons. _

_This cottage was designed and built by me, with occasional aid from house-elves (I apologize, Miss Granger). A trusted colleague and I created the protective spells that encircle the cottage and the forest. They are embedded in the stones and ground; even if we both die, they will remain. My portrait at Hogwarts will tell whomever is available how to release the spells when the war is over. Hopefully, it will not be too long. _

_As to your stay here, I endeavored to provide as many comforts as possible. The refrigerator is connected to the Hogwarts kitchens; should you need anything in particular, simply open it and Summon your groceries. Otherwise, it will replenish itself of staple foods as you run out. _

_The books are for your use; I hope they bring some diversion. Under the coffee-table are a wizard chess set, Gobstones, and an Exploding Snap deck. There is a wizard radio in the nightstand of each bedroom. Two broomsticks are in the garden shed. If you explore the woods, I am sure you will encounter a number of pleasant surprises. _

_Letters have been sent to both your families explaining where you are and why. I am afraid that regular communication would be a danger to all of you, though Harry will be able to contact you occasionally. Rest assured that Voldemort will be defeated and that you will be safe while that process is undergone. _

_Again, my deepest apologies for any concern or alarm on your part. Please understand this is for the greater good. _

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (Prof.)_

The edges of the parchment were now a crumpled mess, as Hermione's grip had tightened with each paragraph.

Logically, it all made sense. Dumbledore's analysis of the situation was perfect. Voldemort had exploited Harry's protectiveness before now; with Dumbledore gone, anyone known to be close to the Boy Who Lived was in danger. And the side of the Light could not afford to have its mascot, its only hope, haring off to rescue his kidnapped friends and getting himself killed. Keeping Harry safe meant keeping them safe, and vice versa.

But it would have been nice to be asked about it. They had agreed to reasonable covenants to protect Harry before now. True, this way there was no arguing, no doubt about them being safely and secretly delivered to their little holding pen, but Dumbledore's "move pawns first, explain strategy later" actions angered her deeply. Her life for the foreseeable future, and those of her friends, had been decided by a man who was dead through his own bad judgment. It was not comforting.

"Well?"

Ron's voice interrupted her thoughts. Hermione sighed and turned back to him, dropping the letter on the counter.

"I don't like it, but it makes sense, in a way," she growled. Ron looked worried, but shrugged his shoulders with his idiosyncratic acceptance of situations out of his control.

"I guess, well, at least it's not a bad place to be, eh?" Her expression must have shown a tremendous amount of worry, for he stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around her. She forced herself to relax into the embrace. A few tears escaped her and she blotted them on his shirt.

"I suppose. But we're going to hate each other within a week," she replied. Ron might see this as a paradise, and it was in a sensual manner, but perfection is boring. Hermione knew the monotony and claustrophobia would get to them sooner rather than later.

Add to that the unmistakable swelling in Ron's trousers that she was starting to feel pressing against her hip and you had a recipe for all sorts of problems.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Sleep on_

_Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek_

_No happier state, and know to know no more.  
_

Paradise Lost_, _Book IV

The Dark Lord's Legilimency was a scalpel in Severus's mind. Deftly, it sought out imperfections, mistakes, anything that might indicate corruption of what should be there. Severus concentrated on the image of Dumbledore's doppelganger lying broken at the foot of the tower. Over and over he mentally intoned, _Dumbledore is dead. I killed him._

The scalpel turned, cutting to the scene at the top of the tower. Severus felt the validity of the memory being probed: was the green flash the correct shade of green? Did Severus say the proper words?

_Dumbledore is dead. I killed him._

Voldemort did not become a Dark Lord without a healthy amount of paranoia. He reviewed the memories several times. Severus never allowed himself a flicker of doubt, never permitted himself to think of Dumbledore not being dead. The tiniest slip would mean his death.

Eventually, the Dark Lord left his mind. Severus returned to the world around him in time to see him relax back into his chair at the head of the Malfoy's dining table. Pale grey fingers tapped against nonexistent lips, and Severus coolly met the cold red eyes.

"I commend you, Severus," the Dark Lord said. "Your loyalty and quick action in a moment of crisis will not go unrewarded."

Severus inclined his head, trying to emanate modesty. "I did my duty, my Lord, nothing more." This was always tricky; the Dark Lord did not appreciate obsequiousness in his followers. To deny the part you played too strongly could anger him nearly as much as arrogance would.

Of course, the definitions of "obsequious" and "arrogant" could change in a moment and condemn words that were approved of a minute earlier. Dealing with the Dark Lord was much like dealing with the Dark Arts. Tactics had to change each day as variables shifted; what worked previously might not work now, but could possibly work tomorrow. It was not for nothing that Severus had lectured his students on the mutability of the Dark Arts. With any luck, some of it would stick in their heads and they would stand a better chance.

"Very well." Voldemort stood, his body undulating with every movement in a manner remarkably reminiscent of Nagini. Severus quickly got to his feet. How he hated these little gestures of servitude, the careful bowing and scraping and tugging of forelocks that were implicit upon swearing fealty to the Dark Lord. Dumbledore might be a meddling old bastard, but he at least did not require the staff to kneel when he entered a room.

"You may go, Severus. I shall call you when I require you. I think," he continued, gliding past Severus to move into the opulent entrance hall, "that we shall have to take the Ministry before the search for Potter begins in earnest. Once I am the only authority the wizarding world answers to, no one will dare harbor him. Also, there is the future of Hogwarts to consider. Shutting down my dear alma mater simply will not do." He laughed, high-pitched and hissing, a sound that still pricked the nerves of Severus' spine.

"My time is at your command, my lord." Swiftly, Severus knelt to kiss the black fabric at the hem of the Dark Lord's robes, before standing and backing out of the hall.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the heavy doors of Malfoy Manor shut behind him. Having furniture, walls, doors, or preferably a planet between him and his supposed master always made him feel slightly less on edge. It lessened the immediate threat of death, though Severus was beginning to suspect that he was growing less and less expendable in Voldemort's demonic eyes. Both hints of rewards to come and nary a threat for the past few months indicated his growing usefulness. He would have to cultivate it without, of course, actually assisting the Dark Lord's plans to any great extent.

_When all this is over, _Severus thought, striding through the lush gardens towards the gates, _I am going to buy myself a warehouse of Ogden's Finest._

He vented his frustration for the moment by Transfiguring one of Lucius' prized white peacocks into an azalea bush. A flick of his wand ensured that it would wear off in an hour or so. Bellatrix, he recalled, was violently allergic to azaleas. The thought of her haughty face swollen and blotchy, with tears pouring from eyes and nose, lightened his spirits slightly, and he smirked as he Apparated home.

The next evening, after dinner, Severus stepped outside his house and into a dark alley next to it. No crickets provided a symphony in this skeleton of an industrial town, so his complex incantation hung alone in the stillness. With his wand, he tied a glowing blue knot in the air. Two sharp words, accompanied by violent slashes, and the knot unraveled into a clean, hovering oval.

But inside the glowing curves could be seen, not run-down buildings, but a quiet forest, highlighted in silver by a bright moon. It was a perfect forest, in fact, with picturesque trees spaced fairly evenly apart, and no straggly or thorny underbrush to inconvenience a wanderer. In fact, it looked like a forest that had been made to look exactly as people imagined forests i_should/i_, and nothing like they do.

Severus stepped through the doorway as though walking into a grocers. It closed behind him without a sound. He was used to the process by now; he had been slipping into the magically enclosed haven every other day for three weeks. Spying on Granger and Weasley was simple compared to his usual espionage situation. The information needed was minimal, and he had already gleaned most of it. Everyday patterns had formed in the three weeks since his ex-students had been placed here, and he had their usual schedules practically memorized. His work now was to attempt to discern the emotional state of the pair; every fight, spat, and interaction he viewed from afar could give him more weapons to use against the girl.

He cast a Disillusionment charm over himself, nodding in satisfaction as his outstretched arm took on the colors and shapes of his surroundings. Quietly, he made his way through the woods.

When the trees thinned and he could see the cottage, he stopped. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a fleshy string. He sent one end of it scuttling across the grass like a snake, while the other he placed against his ear. Annoying little brats though they were, the Weasley twins came up with some very useful products.

* * *

The mug of tea warmed Hermione's hands, though they hardly needed it. The night air was balmy, the residual heat of a very warm day keeping the chill from it. Hermione was perched on a wooden bench in the front garden, staring up at the glittering stars. She had counted three meteorites in the past hour. Whoever had designed the sky (Dumbledore, she assumed) had programmed it to behave idyllically. At least the moon waxed and waned, and each night the shooting stars were in a different part of the sky, but she couldn't help but feel a new videotape was put in at sundown and some omnipotent finger pressed "play".

_Did Dumbledore think I wouldn't notice? _she groused to herself, setting her mug down on the wood slats beside her so she could cross her arms. _Or did he not care that I would notice?_ Three weeks she and Ron had been here, and God only knew how many more were to come. Surely Dumbledore's brilliant mind would have foreseen the cleverest student at the school noticing the odd astronomical tendencies.

She had to admit that considerable effort had gone into making this ersatz world somewhat realistic, but in some cases the design stopped short of unpleasant aspects of reality, yet in other cases embroidered upon nature. The deer in the woods moved correctly, and one small doe even limped, but no droppings were to be found anywhere, nor did the flora look nibbled-upon. The waterfall in the woods fell into a deep pool, but the last time she checked, there had been stairs and seats carved into the rock and the water was perfect swimming temperature. A smaller pool some ways off resembled a mineral hot spring that Hermione had read of once in a book on American geology—it was the perfect level of hot for a good soak. The whole place was a haven, a paradise, and she instinctively hated its perfection. It reminded her of a resort she'd stayed in when she went to the South of France: your every need was catered to, which was fun for a time, but soon became dull.

However, it wasn't as though she any choice about what programmed sky to look at. Or what small, fairy-tale cottage to live in.

She heard the front door creak open behind her.

Or what housemate to have.

"Hermione?"

She didn't turn at his call. Maybe Ron would work out that she wanted to be left alone.

No such luck.

"There you are." Footsteps on the flagstones came towards her. She saw him in the corner of her vision. He was bare-chested. The moonlight almost hid his freckles, leaving only pale skin. He still smelled of the roast beef he'd eaten for dinner; Hermione had opted for a salad of spinach, walnuts, and goats cheese, with a sharp balsamic vinaigrette. Her appetite for rich food had vanished in the stifling atmosphere.

For a second she thought she might have to rescue her mug of tea from Ron's rear end, but he remembered to look before he sat. She did snatch the cup from him before he could set it on the ground, but did not acknowledge him any further. It was rude and she was fully aware of it. Living with Ron for three weeks had that effect.

"It's a nice night," he offered, after a few minutes of silence. Hermione nodded.

He sighed gustily and turned to her, placing a hand on her arm. Forced to recognize him, she looked over.

"Hermione, I'm trying," he said, eyes pleading. "I know living with me can't be fun, we've nothing to talk about, but I'm bloody _trying_ to be bearable!" He snapped off the end of his sentence and glared at her.

"You haven't spoken three words to me today," he continued, releasing her arm so he could gesture with both hands. "I'm not a mind reader; I don't know if you want to be left alone or hugged or kissed or _what_, and unless you tell me what you want, I won't just vanish until you're in a better mood. We're stuck here together," he concluded.

She bit her lip and looked away. It wasn't fair to cut him out like this; he was used to being surrounded by family and friends. Solitude would never be a haven for him like it was for her. Running to the borders of the space they shared wouldn't get rid of her confusion or her irritation.

"Ron, I- I'm sorry," she said, more to the ground than him. "This place puts me on edge in an odd way, and you're the only person to take it out on. Nothing's _real_ here!"

A hand brushed her cheek, vanished, and then reappeared lower down to slide into her own hand.

_Oh, no, Ron, don't set yourself up for this, don't make me hurt you more…_

"I'm real, Hermione. What I feel is real."

She wanted to run, wanted to slap him and tell him he was mad to think she wanted him. Whether he realized it or not, he was taking advantage of her being lonely and unhappy and she hated him for it. But it was, she thought as she looked back into those begging brown eyes, like hating a puppy for wanting to be fed.

Maybe she could have reality, for a night. It was hard to be more real and down-to-earth than Ron without being a boulder. It was possible that sex would fuck everything up, but at least there could be a solid problem to have actual fights over, not this vague sense that everything was wrong.

Also, Hermione was desperately, insanely _bored._ If nothing else, sex was something to do. Or rather—and she kicked herself for this—Ron was some_one_ to do. If all hell broke loose, she could go back to ignoring him.

Slowly, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his.

It was clumsy and awkward. He kissed her and she let him; she did not object when a large hand squeezed her breast. She slid her hands up his back and swung a leg over his lap to straddle him.

It took fifteen minutes of kissing and fondling before she felt even slightly aroused. She gave up enjoying the process as a lost cause and decided to get it over with. Standing, she grabbed Ron's hand and began to drag him toward the cottage. No clothing was shed until they were in his bedroom, with the door locked; an instinct, she supposed, that came from living six other people.

She stood naked before him. She would have been shy of her plump thighs and soft stomach if she'd cared enough. But he didn't care, his hard penis was proof of that, and he touched her eagerly. He was rough with desire, which did nothing to help his bedroom talents, such as they were. Fingers fumbled in her vagina and rubbed at absolutely nothing of importance.

When he was propped up on his elbows above her, poised to enter, he asked her if she was a virgin.

Hermione looked up at him, weighing her response carefully.

"No," she lied. He looked disappointed, or at least as disappointed as any seventeen-year old boy who was about to get laid could look.

"Are you?"

He looked slightly insulted at the question. "Nah, me'n Lavender… "

She knew he, at least, was telling the truth. Slightly alarmed at the thought of sleeping with everyone Lavender had slept with, she took a few minutes to wrestle a condom onto him. He made faces the whole time, but didn't protest too much.

It hurt a bit when he pushed into her. She wasn't wet at all, which didn't help, and he was ignorant of the new abuse her inner flesh was taking. He panted away above her, occasionally pausing to kiss her roughly. She went along with his kisses and faked her sounds of pleasure, though every once in a while, he would hit a spot inside her that pulled a genuine gasp from her lips.

But those moments were brief and far between. They disappeared entirely as his movements grew more and more erratic, and his groans louder.

"Oh, Hermione… I'm gonna… _unh!"_

Ron thrust into her one last time, his freckled face scrunched up with orgasm. Gradually he relaxed, peppering her face and neck with kisses before collapsing onto the bed next to her.

Hermione waited until his snores rang in the room before slipping back into her own chamber and climbing into her own—blissfully empty—bed. She was sore and tired. Sleep took her quickly, giving her little time to reflect on the mess she had just made of her current living situation.

_I bloody hope sex improves with time_, was her last thought before she drifted off.

* * *

Standing at the edge of the forest, Severus wiped tears of silent laughter from his eyes. He didn't need x-ray vision to know the general idea of what had gone on inside the cabin for the last twenty minutes or so. With any luck, Weasley would be as inept at sex as he was at everything else. A frustrated and curious Granger would be of great benefit to his machinations.

Still smirking, Severus recoiled the Extendable Ear and turned back the way he came.

Severus spent the rest of that night carefully sculpting his plan for Granger. The more he outlined and researched, the more he realized that she could be genuinely useful to him. Originally, he had simply needed someone to be a decoy, a bodyguard for Potter to ensure that Voldemort had his hands full. Now, he saw, Granger had potential to aid him considerably in his plan to rid the world of two meddling megalomaniacs. Those on the side of Light wouldn't touch her, those on the side of Dark would underestimate her (at least, they wouldn't take into account a whole summer of his personal tutelage), and hopefully, she could end up, at least partially, on the side of Severus Snape.

And there was the matter of seducing her. It wasn't necessary, by any means, but one so young and innocent would place great importance on sex (and after the scene he had just witnessed, on _good_ sex), and by inference, on those involved in it. It was another level of attachment, an emotional one, that Severus felt could benefit him greatly. He wouldn't force her—Merlin, no; he might be a bastard, but he was no rapist—but delicate hints and perhaps some carefully pointed comments could have her in his bed, willing and eager.

He saw Granger as being a Gryffindor woman of a polar opposite to Lily. Granger was pretty enough and plump; Lily had been slender and stunning. Lily had been untouchable to Severus, nearly sacred, which was why he hated Harry so; Harry was proof that a man had dared to lay hands, mouth, and even cock to Lily Evans. But Granger, well…

She was eminently fuckable. She was flesh, plain and simple; she was human to Lily's angel. Granger would ultimately fall to his seduction, and thus would allow him to shake Dumbledore off his marble throne.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?_

_Th' infernal serpent…_

Paradise Lost, Book I

At eight o'clock in the morning, Hermione's wand started spinning on her beside table, emitting a series of whistles, which, upon close listening, proved to be scales in G. With each thirty-second interval, the volume increased.

It took Hermione a few tries before she successfully slapped her hand down on her wand, silencing the _Sonne Matine_ charm she'd set on it. She sat up, brushing grit from her eyes, and blinked at the sunny scene outside her window. Birds tweeted cheerfully from the small cherry-blossom trees in the garden as butterflies feasted on the hydrangeas.

_Another day in paradise. Huzzah._

When Hermione moved to slide her feet to the floor, she winced. Her inner thighs were a little tender; there was also an ache _inside_ her, a soreness where there should be nothing.

_Oh, no…_

She clapped a hand to her mouth, as though stopping herself from voicing her next thought would somehow make it less painful.

_I had sex with Ron. Oh, sodding hell.  
_

She clasped her hands together, twisting her fingers as she gnawed at her bottom lip. This was not good. This was really, really not good. Having sex with one of your best friends when you did not reciprocate his romantic feelings was bad enough. Doing so when you were the only two people living in a small house was worse.

Doing so only because you were bored… This cut entirely too close to the label "scarlet woman" that Molly Weasley had hinted at two years ago. Granted, it was not Hermione's intention to toy with Ron's affections, but that was exactly what she had just done. He had told her how he felt and she, though she said nothing about requited emotions, had followed a course of action that certainly would not disenchant him of the possibility.

All because she had wanted something interesting to do. Because she was curious.

Ron might be a bit of a twit at times, but he did not deserve this. Hermione cringed at the apology she would have to make, and soon, if there was any chance of fixing this situation. Time to think, prepare, and consider was needed, and doing so alone was a must; fortunately, it wouldn't be hard. Ron generally didn't wake until ten or so, and he was used to her going for solitary walks that often lasted until noon—it was a ritual that had developed over the weeks.

There was a smear of blood on the toilet paper, but aside from the slight soreness that accompanied every movement, there was no other sign that she had lost her virginity the previous night. Hermione took a rapid shower. She felt… not dirty, no; she was ashamed of some of her actions, but not of losing her virginity. Confused and guilty. Hot water didn't erase the feelings, but it took some of the evidence away.

As she brewed coffee and inhaled a bowl of cereal, Hermione considered the one choice she'd made last night that she didn't feel bad about: lying to Ron about her virgin status. When he'd asked her, it had been instinct (_good, honest Hermione Granger instinct_, she thought with a grim smile) to tell the truth, but something stopped her.

_If I'd told him the truth, he would have… stopped? No,_ she amended, as she placed the dishes in the sink and set them to scrubbing themselves with a wave of her wand, _but he would have made an event of it. It would have made sex even more important to him. _The Weasleys were good people, but a bit old-fashioned in some of their thinking. Their reactions to Ginny's love life were proof enough of that. No doubt Ron believed a good girl only gave up her virginity to a boy she loved (whilst in no way holding himself to the same standard). If he'd known, her apologies today would be even harder.

But there was also the plain, simple fact that her virginity was her own to do with as she pleased. Some part of her didn't want Ron to be able to tell people that he had "taken it." It wasn't his to take.

_Practicality over old-fashioned Victorian romance every time_. She smiled for a minute as she stepped out the door and paced quickly through the garden, but the sight of her tea mug from last night, still sitting on the bench, sobered her. Her views on virginity aside, she owed Ron an explanation and an apology, and she needed to remember that.

Hermione mentally scripted her apology to Ron on her way to the forest. Like everything else she wrote, it received an outline, rough draft, edits, rewrites, and final polishes. She was at the stream by the time she'd finished it, and she'd been muttering it to herself, trying to get the sound of it clear, down to the last inflection.

"… and I'm truly sorry—hm, no, not enough… I'm _deeply_ sorry if I misled you. You're my friend and you deserve, wait, no, you've earned better treatment. Mkay." Hermione paused in her soliloquy to ponder the effect her speech could have as a whole.

With no sound, no incantation, no warning, she was smacked off her feet and into the ground by what felt like a block of solid air. Before she could catch her breath and scramble to face her attacker, her wrists and ankles snapped together, and black, vine-like ropes wrapped tightly about them. More ropes snaked around her head, gagging her even as she opened her mouth to scream.

Panicked, she fought her bonds, squirming on the ground. She rolled over and nearly broke her nose on the toe of a polished black boot.

* * *

Severus watched, idly twirling her wand between his fingers, as Granger came eye-to-toe with his boot and froze. Her head whipped up, and he looked down into very wide brown eyes. A muffled noise that might have been an attempt at a scream came from behind the ropes covering her mouth.

Much as he would have liked to loom above her and gloat for a time, he had to act quickly if he was to salvage anything of her trust. Not even know-it-all Granger would think clearly when ambushed and bound by a man she no doubt believed to be a murderer and an enemy.

He stepped back a bit and dropped to one knee, which placed them, if not on equal ground, at a closer proximity. As a conciliatory gesture, he placed her wand down on a flat stone between his foot and her face. Her eyes flicked from the wand to him, narrowing in puzzled wariness.

"Miss Granger," he said, "please note that I have not killed you, nor have I done you any harm. I suggest you analyze this and deduce a logical explanation."

She frowned and blinked at him, probably confused by his curt, matter-of-fact tone, but he could see her considering the situation. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and some of the tension went out of her muscles. She almost certainly did not trust him, but she looked prepared to listen to him now that she knew she was in no immediate danger.

He cocked an eyebrow and received a slow nod in reply.

"Miss Granger," he said, "I am going to release your bonds, on the promise that you will not scream, flee, or attack me. Take it as given that if you attempt any of those courses of action, you will find yourself back at my feet in the same situation you currently inhabit, and I will be much less inclined to be amicable in further dealings. Is that understood?"

Nod.

Satisfied, but still alert, Severus stood up. He stepped back to give her room to rise before pointing at her with his wand—she flinched—and intoning, "_Liberatus."_

The ropes unwound and vanished with a _crack_. Granger seized her wand and scrambled to her feet. He could see her muscles quivering. Humans are animals, and fight or flight instinct will always direct their actions when under stress. Promise or no, if he made one wrong move she would run. And while having her gagged and bound had a certain appeal—especially the gagged part, he thought, as her mouth opened and questions poured forth—it would not make for a trusting beginning.

"Why are you here? How did you get here? Why the bloody hell shouldn't I hex you into next week?"

He snorted at that one. "As if you could."

She glared at him and stuck out her chin. "If I remember correctly, I did hex you once, and that was three years ago. Just think how much I've improved since then."

_Damn._ His lip curled at the memory of being Disarmed and knocked out by three fucking _teenagers_.

"But you're alone now, Miss Granger. Do you really think you could so much as scratch me, when I'm fully prepared for an assault?"

Petulant silence answered him. He smirked.

"Sensible of you. Now, as to why I'm here—,"

"Did you kill him? Whose side are you on?"

"Listen—"

"Show me why I should listen to you, Professor."

"I shall if you _shut up!_"

Her eyes widened again, the tautness returning to her muscles.

Severus clenched his teeth. _She doesn't know any better, _he reminded himself. _And if she had professed unconditional faith in me, I would have called her a damn fool. _He had to force back the anger, bite down the bile in his throat, if he was to keep from frightening her into running. Deep breaths, sucked in through his nostrils, gradually turned the boil into a simmer. There would be ample time to yell at her in the months to come, but first he had to keep her with him long enough to convince her of his constancy to the side of Light.

When he felt it was safe to speak, his voice came out cold and snarling.

"You want some _proof_ of why you should listen to me, girl? You need the evidence shoved in your face, as always? Fine!"

He whipped around and raised his wand, ignoring her gasp. With a flourish, he sketched a glowing oval in the air before him; a sweeping wave filled it in with silver. A mirror now hung there, reflecting his angry visage and, if he adjusted the angle a touch, Granger's white face and clenched jaw. He needed her to be able to see the mirror, without being easily seen from within it. A quick tilt to the left and up fixed the problem.

The silver rippled as he tapped the tip of his wand against it and said, "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore!"

An incoherent splutter came from behind him. No doubt she thought he was playing a sick joke, attempting to commune with the dead, and a grisly scene was in store for them both.

When Dumbledore's wrinkled, kindly, and most of all, _living_ face appeared on the mirror, Severus heard a faint gasp.

"Severus? Is everything all right?" Dumbledore peered at Severus over his half-moon spectacles. His crooked nose looked rather sunburned and, upon closer inspection, the familiar spectacles had a tint to them. Apparently the Headmaster was enjoying his holiday on the sunny beaches of Italy.

"Perfectly well, Albus," he replied. "I simply wished to inform you that Miss Granger and Weasley seem to be thriving. In fact," he continued, a sudden bout of spite urging him to new depths, "I would recommend limiting the amount of sweets the house-elves send, as Transfiguring the clothes to make them larger only works for so long, and we will not be able to re-measure Miss Granger should she run out of trousers that fit."

Her squeak of indignation was music to his ears.

Albus gave him a stern look. "Your concern is touching, Severus," he said, in that completely nonsarcastic tone that plumbed the depths of dry wit. "Well, if there's nothing more to report, I shall return to my novel. _Highland Moor Passions,_ it's called, and I must say the gentleman on the cover is a beautiful specimen, though the kilt is not very flattering. Good day."

With a last nod and a smile, Dumbledore's face vanished from the mirror. It returned to its silvery default appearance. Severus slashed through it with his wand, and it dissipated into the air like fog burning off in the sun.

"He—he's _alive_?"

"Yes, Miss Granger. Alive and well." _But not for long, if you cooperate._

Severus glanced over his shoulder. He wondered if her eyeballs would fall from her head if she widened her eyes any further. They seemed to take up the entire upper half of her face.

She licked her lips. "But… Harry saw you perform the Killing Curse on Professor Dumbledore, and we found his body at the foot of the tower. No one could have survived Avada Kedavra; even if he did, if you had missed or something, the fall would have killed him."

Severus stepped to a nearby tree and leaned against it. Arms crossed over his chest, he prepared himself for a very long inquisition.

"Potter saw a flash of green light subsequent to my saying 'Avada Kedavra.' As you know, the Killing Curse—and all the Unforgivables—requires great force of will to be carried out successfully. Without the true desire to kill at that moment the spell is cast, the curse is merely words. I spoke the incantation, and then used a nonverbal spell that produced green light combined with a strong Levitation spell to move Albus from the tower. I can't tell you exactly how he escaped, but I did place a broom on a window-ledge several stories below. Presumably, he slowed his fall and used the broomstick."

She nodded. He could see her running the story through her mind, seeing if all the facts lined up, which was exactly what he expected her to do. What he counted upon her to do, in fact.

"And the body… a golem? A Polyjuiced corpse? I mean, is it possible for Polyjuice Potion to transform a corpse, or would you have to administer it to a living person and then…" She trailed off, flushing at the accusation she was on the brink of throwing at him. Or Dumbledore. He wasn't sure which would have horrified her more: that a man she thought to be dead had killed someone and presented them as his own corpse, or the man who she, up until now, believed to have killed the other man had performed the murder and enchantment for him.

"A golem; clay, before you ask, and it required two months to perfectly sculpt it to look like Albus. No, I will not tell you which books contain the procedure for creating golems," he added, as her face lit with an all-too-familiar manic curiosity. She deflated slightly.

"Do you now trust me, Miss Granger? I do not wish to stand here going over every detail of my considerable alibi. If we have determined that I am on your side, then I shall move this conversation forward."

She cocked her head, considering him for a moment longer, and then nodded.

"I think I trust you, Professor."

"Good. Now," he continued, taking his weight off the tree and stepping closer to her, "you will return to this place next week, at the same time. Bring your wand. And do not tell Weasley of our meeting." With that, he turned and began to draw the outline of a doorway back to Spinner's End.

"Why not? And what are you and I going to be doing?"

He snapped around to glare at her. She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

"I have a right to know that, Professor. I refuse to allow you to take me completely by surprise each time we meet."

"I shall be teaching you dueling, Miss Granger," he snarled. "And Albus doesn't want Weasley to know that you've been selected to be trained as Potter's bodyguard, should you end up in battle next to him. Apparently it would hurt Weasley's precious _feelings_, so Albus wants to keep the situation as sugar-coated as his sherbet lemons. Satisfied?"

Her jaw dropped. "Me?" she squeaked. "But what about the Aurors? Or Professor Dumbledore? Or you, or one of the teachers—."

"I will explain further next week, now shut up and go back to the cottage. Behave normally and keep your mouth _shut_, Miss Granger. For," he said, stepping close to her and leaning in, "if I so much as suspect that Weasley knows of this, I will Obliviate both of you. And I make no guarantee to be delicate about it. You can be useful to this war, but do not delude yourself about being essential to it. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," she said, quietly.

He sneered at her white face. With a flick, he completed the spell and stepped through the doorway to the ramshackle town beyond.

* * *

The glowing door closed behind Snape with no more sound than a gentle breeze, cutting off her view of him and leaving her mind whirling.

Hermione reached out for a nearby apple tree, arms shaking, and sagged against its solid wood. Confusion, fear, and an odd sense of triumph warred inside her mind.

Triumph, she realized, because her over-thinking the situation had been correct. Dumbledore had tricked the world again. Snape was not a murderer.

And she had been right to wonder and question.

Of course, in his typical swirling-robes-and-sneering-face manner, Snape had left more questions than answers. Hermione drummed her fingers against the tree trunk, picking at a rough spot in the bark with a nail.

If Snape could contact Dumbledore, could he also contact Harry? Or, she considered, teeth tugging at her lower lip, were they in the same place?

Now that was an interesting thought. The safest place in the world was generally regarded as wherever Albus Dumbledore happened to be, particularly if no one was going to be looking for said place, on account of Dumbledore being "dead." Where better to stow Harry, the Boy Who Lived? And by the sun-kissed look of the headmaster, it certainly was no place in England. Even better for hiding two faces that were instantly recognizable in the British Isles.

Well, she could posit her theory to Snape next week and see if he deigned to answer. Until then, she would comb the books in the cottage for any information on dueling. With any luck, Ron would notice the multiple nearly-empty coffee cups and rumpled attire and divine that she was in full research mode.

Hermione paused in her thoughts. For an instant, her fingers stilled on the bark of the tree.

_Smack!_

Leaves quivered in time with the stinging throb in her palm. She'd slapped it against the tree like punctuation to her thought—a visceral exclamation point.

_Ron._

Damn.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Assaying by his devilish art to reach_  
_The organs of her Fancy, and with them forge_  
_Illusions as he list, phantasms, and dreams._  
~Paradise Lost, Book IV

Hermione marched back through the forest. Determination to get the painful deed done with was all that kept her feet moving forward. Avoiding Ron was going to be impossible and avoiding the subject when she encountered him was more so. Best to state the facts as clearly as possible and then spend half an hour in a screaming match. This would be followed by a week of sulking and then, hopefully, reconciliation.

Of course, if any previous fights of theirs were indicative, the sulking could go on indefinitely. There was no Harry here to mediate arguments and try to talk them out of their separate corners.

"Oi! Hermione!"

A Weasley-shaped bird whizzed by over the treetops, turned a rapid loop-the-loop in midair, and shot back towards her. She hadn't even noticed the trees thinning and giving way to the meadow in which the cottage stood.

Ron dropped to the ground and dismounted. The wind had tousled his hair into a red bird's nest, and he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

The last time he'd been this happy was right after he'd won the Slytherin Quidditch match last year. His ebullience then had only been interrupted by Lavender and her voracious snogging.

"Back from your walk, then? How was it?" he asked. He took her hand and clasped it, rubbing his thumb over her fingers.

"I wish you'd at least stuck around this morning, Hermione," he continued, as she stared at him, too miserable even to object to the physical touch. "I mean, what with us, well, you know…"

He flushed slightly and waggled his eyebrows. The smile never waned.

To deliver that blow now, when he was so happy, was a measure beyond her capacities. He was still her friend. Maybe a letter or a quiet talk later that evening would suffice, but she could no more tell him of her mistake now than she could kill him.

She smiled weakly and squeezed his hand before pulling away.

"Yes, Ron. Yes, we did."

New tactics swirled in her mind as they walked back to the cottage. She did go so far as to slide her hands into her pockets before he could seek them out again.

She kept quiet through lunch, murmuring, "Mhmm" and "Really?" when it seemed appropriate. Immediately after the dishes had been set to washing, she immersed herself in a cup of coffee and a stack of books, setting them up like a barricade between her armchair fortress and the world. Ron passed through soon after, whistling. He paused by her chair to kiss her on the cheek before continuing on his way. She waited until the shower was running to drop her book to her lap and stare at the hearth.

His physicality, she realized, was his way of acknowledging the change between them. He didn't have to ask her questions; they'd had sex and therefore were in a relationship. No inquiries to her about her feelings were necessary, for wasn't that simply the way things worked? The possibility of nuances, of levels, of having a different idea of things, did not occur to him.

Not that she had expected anything else, really. Hermione sipped her coffee, relishing the bitter taste.

Two cruelties lay before her: tell him now and hurt him, or wait to tell him and hurt him anyway.

No choice, really. Sighing, she picked up _Dueling and Defense: A Practical Guide_, by Rapierre LeFou and began to read about dueling etiquette. _The delicate and subtle art of dueling is not a fight, but a dance…_

* * *

"I do not wish to."

"Nonsense, Severus. You will."

"It's not a case of unrequited hate, Albus. Both sides are fully reciprocating."

Too late. Scruffy black hair replaced a white beard, and smiles containing iron-clad beneficence gave way to something bordering on a scowl.

"Potter."

"Professor."

Damn those eyes of his. Severus tried to focus on what he could see of the tomato vines in the background.

"How are Ron and Hermione? _Sir?_"

"Still alive at last sighting. I make no guarantees."

"Make sure nothing happens to them."

"That's the plan, Potter. They shall remain sequestered and wrapped in cotton wool until such time as Professor Dumbledore sees fit. This has been drilled into your skull before, or has the lovely Mediterranean air pulled it out of you?"

"I'm concerned about my _friends_, Professor. People I _care about_."

Severus's fingers itched to throttle the adolescent snideness out of him. "Touching, Potter."

Potter glared at him before vanishing from the mirror. Dumbledore reappeared to give Severus a weary look full of reproach.

"I should not have to remind you, Severus, of how it hurts to be terrified for the ones you love. Good day to you." With that, the mirror went blank.

_But in a way you do have to remind me, Albus_, Severus thought, slashing the mirror to wisps of sliver. _It's a tug on the leash, ensuring that it is still connected to the collar at my throat. A collar of red hair and green eyes and pleading with someone I hated._

Growling to himself, he reached for the glass of firewhisky sitting on the coffee-table and downed it in one swig. It burned away his resentment for the time, clearing his head to the task at hand.

Severus picked up a quill and a length of parchment and began to write a curriculum outline. After all, just because he was using dueling training to trick Granger didn't mean he was going to go about it badly. She was infinitely more useful if well-trained.

* * *

The coffee in her mug trembled as Ron's bedroom door slammed shut. Hermione stayed utterly still, staring resolutely at the bricks in the fireplace as she had all through Ron's ranting.

_"…did you think it would be a fucking experiment or something? Are all the boys you've shagged variables to be plugged into some bloody Arithmancy equation?"_

She had apologized only for any inadvertent misleading on her part, but getting him to see any side but his own was impossible. Eventually she had shut down, simply repeating "I'm sorry," when he stopped for breath. Screaming, she decided, was a show of weakness, a loss of control. She was tired of losing control.

And she didn't want to give him the idea that he had upset her. It might fool him into thinking that she regretted her actions, rather than their consequences. She would wait, calm and focused, until he had burnt out his anger and could see reason.

_At least I'll have Snape to talk to,_ she thought, reaching for the coffee. It was warm and soothing, washing away the anger and hurt Ron had left her with. Sighing into the steam, she placed the mug back on the table and stood. She avoided the edge of the table as she stepped over to the nearest bookshelf; previous carelessness in that area was evident in a fading bruise on her shin.

This bookshelf yielded exactly what the other ones had: nothing more on dueling. She had quickly read and cast aside LeFou's book, as it reminded her strongly of _Defensive Magical Theory_. She would simply have to face Snape next week with her wits and what she remembered from the second-year Dueling Club and the DA.

There was a dearth of Dark Arts books as well, Defense Against or otherwise. Hermione set her hands on her hips, glaring at the spines. It was passing peculiar for Dumbledore to have ignored such books, especially during a time of war.

_Ignored_, she wondered, deigning _A Spell for Every Occasion_ close enough for her needs and pulling it off the shelf, _ignored or withheld?_

Another question for Snape. She considered writing them all down, but demurred when she pictured Snape's face should she draw out a list of questions next week. Shaking her head in exasperation over the men she had to deal with, Hermione went to her reading.

She spent most of the following week reading and making notes of anything that seemed remotely useful. A list of all the spells she knew was created Saturday afternoon after drinking slightly more coffee than usual. She spent Sunday and Monday selecting and re-copying the ones that could conceivably be used in battle.

Only twice did she run into Ron, their mealtimes having mysteriously become out of sync and all other hours spent in separate rooms. The first time was as she stepped out of the bathroom after a shower. Ron saw her towel-clad form, went red as the Gryffindor banner, and ducked back into his room before she could venture more than a smile.

The second time was actually more embarrassing than the first, but for her rather than him.

By Monday, Hermione was in the habit of checking the broom shed to see if one of the Comet Two-Sixties was gone. This would, of course, signal that she had the house and garden to herself for the foreseeable future.

This morning, it was still there, but it had company.

Ron hadn't noticed her, of that she was sure, but the sight of him slumped against the wall with his fist pumping over his cock was not one that left her mind quickly. She couldn't help but wonder, as she fled down the flagstone path to the cottage, whom he was picturing as he groaned to the empty shed.

By the way he went red the next time they bumped into each other in the hall (fully clothed), she was sure it had not been Lavender Brown.

The memory still lingered on Thursday when she hiked into the woods to meet Snape. Hermione shuddered and tried to focus on birdsong and leaves. It would not do to duel with Snape while distracted by wanking Ron.

* * *

"At last."

Granger smiled cheerily at him despite his rude greeting, padding over the mossy ground to where he stood under the apple tree.

"Good morning, Professor," she said. A curl had escaped her ponytail and she brushed it out of her eyes, blinking up at him in a manner entirely too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for his liking. It would be just his luck if she was a fucking morning person.

Growling inwardly, he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"By arriving you have agreed to undertake this task. You continue now at your risk," he said.

She blinked under his glare, but her voice was calm.

"I understand, Professor."

_No, not really, Granger, but it will do. _

Now he could begin. With care to making the movement unstudied, he began unbuttoning his frock coat, caressing the black buttons as he slid them through their holes. It was the subtle things, he knew, that lasted with women; a certain glance or movement or intonation in the voice. All it took was one detail to linger in her mind as she lay alone in bed and he had a foot in the door.

He undid three buttons before speaking.

"Miss Granger, where do you normally keep your wand?"

She frowned, and he saw her right arm twitch toward her back trouser pocket. It was all the answer he needed, but she clearly didn't recognize the telling movement.

"In my back pocket, sir, unless I'm sitting or lying down, in which case it usually goes on the couch or table next to me. I tried keeping it in the front pocket, but-,"

"You should not keep it in your pockets at all." Button, this one at his navel. Her eyes flicked to the white tee-shirt he was wearing underneath as it peeked from beneath the black wool.

"In your pockets," he continued, "it may be lost, stolen, or broken. It is clearly visible and completely unsecure." Next button at the waist. With any luck, the silver on his belt buckle would catch her eye.

"Observe." With that, he undid the last button, which lay over his groin, and slid his coat off, presenting his left arm for her inspection.

"Oh. I see," she said, peering at the leather-and-elastic contrivance on his forearm. Two slim straps held a wider piece of leather against the back of his arm; it ran from elbow to wrist, ending just inside the joints. His wand was held by three loops of black elastic, its handle stopping just short of the back of his hand. She studied it, muttering her analysis aloud.

"Hm… well, I suppose it's hidden this way, since most wizards wear long sleeves, and it doesn't look as though it will fall out. But I've heard wizards who carry their wands up their sleeves place them on the inside of their arm, so why is yours on the outside, sir?"

"It's easier to wear and less obstructive."

"How so?"

She always wanted proof, this one. It wasn't a bad trait, exactly, but it was bloody annoying sometimes.

"You might enjoy having the inside of your elbow constantly poked, but most people do not." He bent and straightened his arm, demonstrating the freedom of movement. "Discomfort is distracting. Distraction is death."

Her mouth formed a neat "O".

"Your body matters in war, Granger." _In so many ways, you poor, pretty girl._ "Remember that."

From a pocket of his coat, he took a similar contraption and handed it to her. It was not dyed black, as his was, but was simple brown leather. "Spell it to fit and then we'll begin. Do not let me catch you putting your name or any foolish decoration upon it."

A snort of disbelief escaped her, though her concentration on her Shrinking Spell did not waver.

"I'm not stupid, Professor."

"We shall see. Ready?

"Er, I did have some questions for you, sir," she stammered as he swept past her to take a position several meters away, "regarding Headmaster Dumbledore and Harry."

"Later! Now, a test run. Nothing harmful this round, though I doubt you know too many damaging spells. Begin!"

Predictably, she bowed.

_Lockhart will get more people killed…_

_"Expelliarmus!_"

Head over heels she went, into a shrub. Catching her wand as it fell, Severus sauntered to her struggling form.

"Rule number one: anything Lockhart says is stupid. Anyone who believes otherwise is also stupid. Get up, Granger. This is war, not second-year playtime."

With a groan, the girl got to her feet. Her hair was now bushy in both senses of the word. She grimaced as she extracted a twig and some leaves.

"I'm _sorry_," she muttered. "There weren't any books in the cottage except LeFou and he concurred with Lockhart on bowing before duels."

"Duels, yes," he snarled, thrusting her wand at her, "which are poncy, dancing-about, mine-is-bigger contests for ego-stroking. What I am teaching you is fighting, and it is not polite. There are no rules except to survive."

"You might have said so." Glaring at him, she snatched the wand from his hand, giving it a quick going-over, presumably to check for sabotage.

"Come. Again."

With a last mutinous look, she turned to move away.

"_Electrois!_"

A thin bolt of lightning streaked from his wand to singe away a chunk of her hair and send the rest of it crackling into a cloud.

"What the—?"

"Never turn your back on an enemy!"

"Why you—_Rictusempra!_"

He blocked her spell easily, but there was force behind it. Not surprising, if the brilliant flush of anger across her face was any indication. She didn't let up, either, sending a Stinging Hex immediately after it. He dodged instead of blocking to allow himself a retaliatory hex.

Three more attacks each and she was sent flying into the creek. She had held out fairly well, he thought as she emerged, spluttering, from the water. But then, he hadn't been throwing even half his abilities at her, a decision he'd made after much thought. When she inevitably got cocky, he would have something in reserve to show her how much she truly did not know.

"What was that spell you used two rounds ago?" she asked, wringing out her hair onto her soaked tee-shirt. "The one with the bright orange mist?"

"A Poison Air curse," he said, making a mental note to try to aim for the creek with all future force spells. Her wet clothes draped in a lovely manner.

"Oh! I read about that in fifth year. It was invented during World War One by wizards working undercover in the army, to replicate the appearance and effects of mustard gas," she rattled off, eyes shining like a Labrador that had brought in the morning paper. Her wet clothes seemed to be forgotten in favor of spouting drivel.

"It was invented by Brigadier Malat Mosphère—,"

"You know," he said, blissfully silencing her for a moment, "I don't need to teach you dueling."

"Sir?"

"You can bore your opponents to death with useless information."

"Useless, sir?" Her eyes narrowed, and she planted her hands on her hips, jerking her chin obstinately. "I was going to say that the spell can be easily evaded by use of a Bubble-head Charm or, barring that, a handkerchief over the mouth and nose, which is useless information, I'm sure, if you're feeling suicidal that morning."

"Hmph."

Smiling a little, she commenced magically drying herself off, one article of clothing at a time.

"If we're at a pause, sir, I have some questions for you."

He lifted an eyebrow. There was an assumption behind her tone of being guaranteed to get answers.

"You're in no position to demand information, Miss Granger—,"

"Actually, I feel I am." Finished with her drying spells (she had, for some reason, ignored her dripping hair), she crossed her arms and looked up at him, radiating self-righteous innocence from her wide brown eyes.

"To withhold information from me is to place me, and thus my duties, in jeopardy. I need to know everything possible about the current situation if I'm not to make mistakes out of ignorance. As a spy, sir, I'm sure you're aware of this precaution."

The problem with know-it-alls was that they were so bloody often right. Molars in Severus' mouth ached as he clenched his jaw.

"If you must."

She grinned, and he steeled himself for the interrogation of a lifetime. 


End file.
